THE THANK YOU CARDS ARE STILL ON THE TABLE
They’ve been sitting there since March. A neat stack, slightly bowed in the middle, tucked under a pen and a pile of blank envelopes. My thank you cards. Half written, half waiting. They were meant to go out after Violet’s funeral, and I suppose I imagined I’d be done with them in a week or two. But they’ve become something else entirely. I think about them every day. Some part of me doesn’t want them to be done, because that might mean that this part-the part where I get to hold them all together in one place, would be done too. These notes have felt like a way to keep her whole, to keep the memory of her life and death complete, instead of scattered out in fragments. Maybe I’ve held onto them longer than I meant to, because letting them go feels a little too much like letting go of her.
Like hidden currents beneath the surface, grief and gratitude swirl in patterns I can’t predict—sometimes separate, sometimes carrying pieces of each other, always finding their way back to me.
At first, it felt like a task I should complete—a way to acknowledge the overwhelming kindness we were met with in those early, disoriented days. Meals, flowers, messages, generosity in all forms. I wanted to honour that. I still do.
When I finally sat down to write, the cards became something different. They weren’t just a task or a step in some process—they became a space. A part of my grief, and a place where I could sit inside it for a while. Somewhere in the middle of writing them, I realized I wasn’t just saying thank you. I was remembering. Each note pulled me back into a moment—someone’s face at the service, a text that reached me on the right day, a bouquet that made it to the funeral home when I could barely think straight. The meal train meals, the ones that gave us breathing room and time—some of that time became this time. Time to write. To try. These cards started to feel like delicate threads, weaving memory and love together. And now the cards all feel like one story that shouldn’t be broken apart. There’s no real logic to it—it’s not about perfection. It’s just that they feel tied together, and incomplete without each other. Like they’re part of the same breath I haven’t exhaled yet.
Charlie is always right beside me when I sit down to work on them. He notices things. He remembers the food dropped off and all the wonderful things people have done. He knows we’re thanking people, and he sits with me at the table while I write. Oliver wants to write every one of them himself, but he says my handwriting is better—even though that’s probably not true. Each one I write comes out a little shaky.
A little while ago, I ran out of thank you cards and had to go back to the funeral home to get more. It wasn’t something I was exactly looking forward to. But Charlie remembered the toys there and was excited to go. He walked in like it was the most natural place in the world. He told me he might want to be a funeral director someday—or work in a hospital, or maybe become a firefighter. He was so comfortable. And somehow, he made me more comfortable, too. I think something we’ve done must be right, because his presence—his way of being—turned a hard visit into something surprisingly light.
I know most people aren’t expecting a card, and some have even told me they’d rather not receive one. Others probably forgot they brought the soup, or that they messaged me late at night, or sent flowers to the service. But I haven’t forgotten. I’m not doing this because I have to. I’m doing it because it matters to me. And even if this is more for me than for them, I still want them to know: thank you.
These cards are an expression of our love, our grief, and our gratitude—all tangled together.
And they’re still coming. Patiently, gracefully, and with all the thanks in my heart.